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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26444287">Permeable Barriers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagess/pseuds/darkmagess'>darkmagess</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Guilt, Herbalism, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Monster of the Week, Plague, Tending to Wounds, Witcher Potions (The Witcher), implied/referenced child sex abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:34:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,177</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26444287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagess/pseuds/darkmagess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt and Jaskier are just searching for escape from the oppressive summer heat, when an old acquaintance asks for their help with the current crisis and reveals a past Jaskier had kept hidden. A plague is sweeping the continent, but Geralt would rather not get involved... until a nearby town falls victim to his sort of problem.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>297</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Witcher Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Permeable Barriers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Lovely art brought to you by <a>wandschrankheld.</a> Go give a follow and send some kudos!</p>
<p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic">AJfanfic</a> for beta reading. </p>
<p>This is the first big bang I've ever done, so thank you for making it a painless process!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Summer sank cloying onto the Continent, and Geralt turned them from the shadeless grasslands of Redania toward Temeria’s forests, with an eye for the coast. Possibly Skellige. They got more harsh looks and pitched stones than usual from oddly busy roads, and so kept their distance, tracking water source to water source. On clear nights, Geralt traveled by the stars, letting Jaskier sleep in the saddle in front of him—the quicker to get out of the beating sun, he said. But if he tucked those nights into the hollows of his heart, no one else need know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d crossed the Pontar two days back—a good and welcome wash—and entered into heavy forest vaguely tracing the path of the road. Jaskier claimed the first glade they found with an abandoned campsite as “where he would go no further” because “I shall pass out and die” and so they didn’t. And the hot day faded into warm night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the heat, Geralt had built a small fire for cooking, and it crackled as it consumed the fresh, sap-heavy wood. They lay on their bedrolls facing one another, shirts long discarded for comfort. Heads pillowed and propped. Moonlight settled gentle silver beside the fire’s orange glow, and the forest pulsed with haunting insect song.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt blinked slowly and traced his fingers over Jaskier’s chest, smiling faintly at the tickle of the dark hairs. He kept his touch light. Exploratory. Listening for shifts in heartbeat as he circled around a pectoral muscle leaving a slight trail of what he knew to be a blush of arcane fire like soaking ink. A witcher’s skin on human flesh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier watched him quietly. Not his hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> As though curious at this fascination but willing to indulge it. Affection bloomed through the witcher’s chest that he should be so indulged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt turned his hand and brushed with the backs of his fingers, concentrating on the softness. He let his eyes shut. Smiled to himself. “I think you might be the hairiest man I’ve ever been with.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier barked out a startled laugh. “Is that a long list?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt opened his eyes and met the bard’s gaze. Used his fingertips again and shrugged. “Haven’t kept count.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s gaze dropped to where the witcher’s pale fingers stood out stark against his mat of black hair. He went still as a small frown formed between his brows. Watched another light stroke, and then pulled just out of reach, tension threading through his shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt froze and tipped his head, studying this new response. Jaskier had always seemed hungry for touch. Eager in their lovemaking. But Geralt had never commented on his body before. Not that he could remember. He’d meant it to be light, even funny. Something to combat the oppressive heat. And could see now he’d missed the mark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He curled his fingers and let his hand drop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve made you self-conscious,” he concluded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard drew a breath and rolled onto his back as he exhaled, peering at the sky. “Not everyone has been so enamored,” he said quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt pushed himself up, leaning his weight against one arm, and peered down with concern. “Well I am,” he said and eased into a coaxing smile. “If that’s allowed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An answering smile spread across Jaskier’s face at his tone, and he relaxed, gesturing with a care-free roll of his wrist. “Well . . . If you </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard’s eyes fell shut when Geralt’s hand touched his abdomen. He wriggled at tickling flutters of fingertips and stifled a laugh. Shifted and smiled as a lone finger traced through damp hair at his sternum. Made a soft sound when a rough palm scraped over one nipple. Relief pooled in the witcher’s belly that he had not ruined the night with his words, and the soft sounds sparkled joy through his blood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s calloused hand glanced up Geralt’s arm and settled beneath his hair, holding his nape. Pressure drew the witcher down. Reeled him in. And Geralt straddled the bard’s body for a better angle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their lips met light and teasing. Geralt held space between their bodies while they kissed. Smiled. Testing each other. Was it too hot for this, too uncomfortable? Or for that—a full wet kiss on the neck. Jaskier let his arms fall open—avoiding body heat and the strange magic in a witcher’s skin. Save where Geralt pressed his lips against him and tasted salt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He made a line of gentle kisses toward the hollow of Jaskier’s throat and felt him freeze. Heard his pulse thunder a little faster. His breathing stop. Geralt wondered. And lingered. And dipped his tongue to delicate skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s knees knocked into him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“S-stop.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard’s hands had become fists, and he tried to pull his legs in. Curling in on himself. Too vulnerable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt stopped and kissed up under his chin. Nuzzled at his cheek in silent apology for having crossed excitement into fear. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>many</span>
  </em>
  <span> people feared him, and he would not add Jaskier to their number. His gentling earned a sigh of relief and a hum of pleasure when Jaskier captured his mouth in another kiss, more earnest than playful. Fingers dug into his hair and gripped until it stung. He let himself be guided. Mouth. Shoulder. Lower. Toward that nipple, he hoped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he froze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Felt his pulse jump and his hackles rise as his instincts screamed about danger. He glanced down, scowling, and Jaskier stared up at him through shadow with confusion. And then, after a moment’s steady gaze, understanding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt tried to peer around them without moving. He glanced to his left but ashen hair fell in the way. Jaskier drew his hand back from where he’d been gripping and brushed Geralt’s hair up and over the back of his neck, for all the world making it look like a caress to his cheek. He turned into the motion slightly to get a better view of the glade and forest. Glanced back down, lips tight, and Jaskier repeated the little play on the other side. The bard barely breathed, though his pulse pounded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the periphery of his vision, Geralt saw it. A shadow of leaves moving against shadows. His body coiled, and he cut a sharp look at Jaskier, who dropped his hand out of the way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No time for weapons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No need. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt bounded from where he knelt. Quick steps to the edge of the firelight. Two more to the edge of the glade. He raised his hand in the sign for Igni and pulled the other back, ready to swing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt, hold!” A voice called from the darkness. “Peace, witcher!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adrenaline coursed through him as he panted, arms still raised. But he held back the flames at the sound of his name and waited. Leaves rustled and a branch broke, and a figure came out of the woods. As he stepped into the glade, the moonlight touched him, and Geralt recognized him by his clothes, if nothing else. Vernon Roche, leader of the Temerian Blue Stripes, the special forces commandos. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roche?” Geralt dropped his arms and scowled. “The fuck are you doing here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon tipped his head to one side. “Business.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I almost burned you alive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have faith in your restraint.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher snorted at that and turned back toward the campfire, trusting Roche to follow. Jaskier had already gotten to his feet and thrown on a shirt. As they entered the circle of logs that served as camp chairs, the bard tossed Geralt his own shirt and then moved to the far side of the fire, never taking his eyes from the Temerian. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt pulled the dark shirt on and fished in his pocket for his medallion. His muscles twitched with want of being used, and annoyance warred with his curiosity as he turned a stern look on Roche. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry if I startled you,” Vernon said, taking a seat on an upturned log. “I hadn’t expected to find you . . . ah . . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Preoccupied?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt crossed his arms, staring at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon dipped his head in acknowledgment. “And then, well . . . I didn’t want to just watch, so—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How kind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought if I made some noise . . .” He trailed off and gestured vaguely, then glanced at Jaskier. “That was nice, that thing you did with his hair. Smart. I’ll have to remember that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyebrows lifted, and he shot Geralt a look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not on the list,” the witcher told him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though if that assuaged anything, it didn’t show. Jaskier’s expression remained wary, and he lowered himself onto one of the logs like a wolfhound. Geralt frowned a little at the tension in him but turned to their . . . guest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vernon, this is—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt . . .” Roche laughed. “I know who he is. You are a man of interest on this continent.” Roche looked up at him. “We know who all your allies and bedmates are. Dangerous or otherwise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A dagger thunked into the log between Roche’s legs, and he startled. Looked up to see Jaskier’s hand lowering back down. His forearms coming to rest against his knees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s frown deepened and he glanced between the two of them with rising unease. Jaskier’s hostility was . . . uncharacteristic. He took a seat purposefully equidistant from them both. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You missed,” Vernon said, voice flat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want, Vernon?” Geralt asked, pulling the threads of their attention his way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche looked down at the dagger and clenched his jaw as he considered his answer. “As you might be aware,” he said slowly, “these are difficult times.” He met Geralt’s steady gaze. “Nilfgaard’s annexation of Ebbing has changed the economics of the four kingdoms. They’re a manufacturing empire, draining our kingdoms’ coffers as more of our currency ends up in their banks from the sale of cheap goods.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tragic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon’s expression pinched. “And, of course, there’s the Bonny Plague.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt cast a glance at Jaskier and found his own blank look returned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche scoffed at them. “Surely you’ve noticed! The packed roads. The closed bridges. Poor and starving peasants everywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Noticed,” Geralt said evenly, “and steered clear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche quirked an eyebrow. “Probably best. The point is, it’s kneecapped Aedirn and spread like wildfire to Kaedwen and Temeria. People were already poor. Now they’re sick. Panicking. Dying. It’s times like these when men are called to aid their country.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt leveled a disdainful look. “I have no country.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t. But I’m not here for you.” He turned to Jaskier. “I’m here for him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s already guarded expression slipped into a scowl and his posture shifted. Breathing deepened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A bard?” Geralt watched Jaskier with growing concern and the sense that he was very much in the dark. “What’s he supposed to do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon stilled like a man who just heard the ice beneath him crack. Surprised flitted across his face. Then a frown in Jaskier’s direction. “He doesn’t know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> dare.” Words like knives slipped from Jaskier’s lips, quick and cold with menace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt scowled at the both of them, alarm reaching his slow heart. “Know what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon made a quick calculation and shrugged at Jaskier with apology. “I really didn’t—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The commander of the Blue Stripes averted his eyes in favor of Geralt’s heated glare. “Geralt, meet Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt jerked as though struck, “Viscount?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Jaskier launched to his feet, “You had no right!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Viscount . . . </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gentry . . .</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche raised his hands and held Geralt’s gaze. “His father is worth a small fortune thanks to their olive groves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s chest heaved with outrage, and he glowed like a demon in the firelight. Geralt stared at him in confusion, his guts twisting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re . . . rich,” he said, the first implication to make its way through his thick skull. Jaskier turned wide, dark eyes his way as he spoke. “And you live on the road like this? Begging for coin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>chose</span>
  </em>
  <span> this life. On purpose.” Jaskier cut a look at Roche. “And I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> going back to that house!” He punched a finger in Vernon’s direction. Vibrated with . . . rage. Something deep and boiling. Something with claws. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fear flooded the air. Jaskier’s fear. And Geralt’s body responded to it with a flush of hormones and excitement and the urge for violence. If murder was an emotion, it was this. He clenched his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon licked his lips, lowered his hands, and spoke carefully in the face of the bard’s anger. “As eldest son, estranged or not, were anything to </span>
  <em>
    <span>happen</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you would inherit your father’s estate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyes flashed. “I would rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>choke</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his money!” He heaved a breath that left him nothing but candle smoke and looked away. Muttered to himself, “I already have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The whisper slid a blade between Geralt’s ribs, but Roche showed no sign of having heard. If anything looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> eager while Jaskier wrapped his arms around himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then my proposal is simple,” Vernon said. “My men and I slit his throat, and you give us the fortune you don’t want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s head snapped to stare at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He didn’t even sound angry so much as astonished.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche shrugged mildly. “We could disappear him to a dungeon, if you want. Look, the Blue Stripes have been isolating villages throughout Temeria, supplying them with food while they hole up to stop the spread of the plague. But we’re out of supplies, and we need the money.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grunted and glowered, his jaw aching. “Why not just storm the estate and take it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon’s laugh was a spare and hollow thing. “The court would have Foltest’s head! Every aristocrat with a henchman would be at the gates. They have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>donate</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Willingly. And some have been holding out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier backed away from Roche’s expectant look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not ideal,” Vernon said gently. “But we get what we want. You get a little justice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Justice!” Jaskier exploded. Charged at him. Roared. “None of you gave a shit about that when it could have mattered! Don’t fucking talk to me about justice!” He kicked a log from the fire in Roche’s direction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s heart beat like a war drum, and a mix of scents assaulted him further. He turned a murderous glare at Roche.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to leave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon acknowledged him with a look and stood. “Just think on it, Julian.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not my name!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt found himself standing, growling, and Roche lifted his hands in supplication. The witcher stalked him as he backed away, made a wall of himself until Vernon turned and disappeared back into the trees. Then quick strides brought him back into the circle of the camp, and he watched as Jaskier paced, agitated, unable to catch his breath. The bard trembled. Shook his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alarm jolted down Geralt’s spine. He tried stepping in Jaskier’s way to catch his gaze, but the bard retreated. Turned, and wouldn’t look. In the past, the two of them had been captured. Threatened. Wounded. And Jaskier hadn’t been like this . . . a slow avalanche of madness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt moved closer and touched his arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t, don’t!” Jaskier swatted at him and pulled away. “Don’t touch me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher held up his hands, ice forming in his bones. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yet his instincts howled that something needed to die for this pain. “Probably not wise to kill the Temerian king’s right hand, but I could be convinced,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier stopped and looked at him then, shivered like a wounded animal. “That’s not funny.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not joking!” Cold wind whistled through his body to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s expression nearly cracked, but he fought it. “How are you so . . . so calm!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not!” He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be. To measure his breaths and unclench his fists. “You smell like rage and terror, and I would rip his arms off if I thought it would help!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever composure the bard had tried piecing together started to give way. He turned to hide it. Pulled his fingers through his hair and shook as his breathing grew more ragged. He tried to keep pacing, but a breath congealed into a sob, and he collapsed into a crouch, fingers laced over the back of his neck. He wheezed, and to Geralt’s mounting horror, cried. A blubbering bubbling over of emotion that dropped tears to the dirt. For a moment, Geralt stood panicked watching him, then moved close as he dared and knelt. His heart pounded painful against his ribs as Jaskier’s pieces came apart before his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I touch you now?” he asked, hands hovering but unsure of their purpose. He should be helping, he needed to be helping . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier blinked toward the sound of his voice, his hands pulling the coil of his body closed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s eyebrows lifted in question, and he swallowed hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sob wracked the bard’s frame. And then he launched himself—a full body tackle that knocked Geralt on his ass as he caught him with just one arm, the other flung out instinctively to keep them from sprawling. Jaskier squeezed him and sobbed into his shoulder, stinking of the sourness of sorrow and sweat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His cries were a hook in Geralt’s throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, the witcher sat up and balanced himself. Slowly settled his hands, one at the waist, one cradling Jaskier’s head, fingers making small motions through his hair. Questions rattled through his stunned silence like clattering bones. How hadn’t he known? Why hadn’t Jaskier ever said? And what, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> was all this?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The father was the eye of the storm. Many men hated their fathers, but this… The body in his arms shook, and he squeezed. This terror, so wild and sudden, defied explanation. Left him weaponless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did—” He started, but Jaskier flinched, and Geralt flushed with shame as the bard—</span>
  <em>
    <span>his lover</span>
  </em>
  <span>—peeled away from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier stared, fire and moonlight glinting on the tears he held back for a moment. “What did he do?” he said, voice thick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt shook his head. “I’m sorry.” Guilt kicked at him. “You don’t have to say.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And still Jaskier stared at him. Met his eyes and held his gaze, while pain tore at his expression. While fear twisted his mouth. Held it and blinked out tears while Geralt recalled his words. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Choke on it. I already have. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dared him to break first and look away. But he didn’t. He didn’t, even as the demonstration of vulnerability made his blood seize.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jask . . .” he whispered, heart crumbling to ashes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s shoulders tightened in a small helpless shrug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Geralt did break first, glancing away as his stomach roiled and adrenaline pumped in useless cascades.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But we’ve—” All the times they’d been together, surely something they’d done had been—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had been something </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’d</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sick heat swelled through Geralt’s belly and chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare.” Jaskier’s voice sliced at him, and the bard shoved at his chest hard. “Look at me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked. Jerked his hands away and shoved them to the ground while Jaskier loomed over him, a feral hound that found its fangs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He doesn’t get to take anything else,” Jaskier said in whispered daggers. “I was ashamed to tell you. Afraid of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> look. But I chose.” He curled his hands into Geralt’s shirt and tugged. Bore his teeth. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> chose. Do you understand? He gets </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> else. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> not you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I chose. Every touch, every encounter</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt closed his fingers around Jaskier’s wrists but did not push him away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> understand. Why not let them kill him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s expression closed, and he drew back on his own. “Because I’m not a murderer. And if I pay their blood money, that’s what I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cocktail in Geralt’s system thrummed at the words. Blood. Murder. Hate hardened quickly in his heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll do it for free,” he said, grinding the words out in a growl. </span>
  <em>
    <span>For you, I will meddle in the matters of men.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier flinched at the sound of it and stared at him before slowly, cautiously rising to his feet. He turned away, wiping at his eyes, and wavered on unsteady legs toward his bed roll. He cast a glance once over his shoulder, looking wounded and haunted, and Geralt took a moment just to breathe without the terror and sorrow clogging his senses. To school his features from a vengeful scowl. He watched Jaskier sit facing the small flames and rest his arms against tented knees. Then slowly fold until his mouth disappeared against his shirt sleeve. His gaze settled on the dancing fire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt stayed where he’d landed, while the adrenaline bled out of his system and the pieces of his world rearranged. Jaskier, the young coinless vagrant. Jaskier, abused child and estranged aristocrat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier, who tended his wounds because “a friend in Oxenfurt showed me how.” As though the healing was not from his own hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier, who gilded a witcher’s trade into warm beds and hot baths. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier, who never let the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>mutant</span>
  </em>
  <span> cross his lips, not even in song.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who chose, every day, the Path. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That the choice might make </span>
  <em>
    <span>sense</span>
  </em>
  <span> was one more curse on Lettenhove’s head and a mark on the ledger Geralt kept in his heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix</span>
  </em>
  <span> anything. But neither could he sit in the dirt and watch a lover drown by degrees. Geralt got up like moving through mud and knelt by his potion bag. His hands shook as he rifled through it quietly, testing packages and pouches by smell until he found the small stash of calamus root he’d gotten from a dwarf trader outside Mahakam. He poured some of the cut root into his palm and moved to Jaskier’s side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He held out his hand, and the bard gave it a long look before offering up his own and frowning at what looked like tiny pebbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chew on it,” Geralt told him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier glanced up and then popped the root into his mouth and chewed. No questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s stomach clenched, and he hovered, just . . . watching, his frown deepening as Jaskier made a face at the bitter herb and shivered, despite the summer heat. Lips pressed to a thin line, the witcher went about building the fire and gathering coals. He fetched a metal cup and water from his pack and set the makeshift kettle near the coals to boil and went back to the potion bag.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier watched him fixing the tea without comment, until it came time for it to steep. Geralt sat on his own bed roll to wait, conscious of the silence. He should be doing something about the silence. And the space between them. A couple of feet, maybe. Was that right? Should he be further? Closer? He glanced over to find Jaskier already studying him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I supposed to eat this?” the bard asked, still chewing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirked. “No. Spit it out when the flavor’s gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier nodded and spit the root into his hand, then tossed it into the fire. He set his mouth against his arms again, heaving a stuttering sigh as he did so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Guilt crystallized in Geralt’s chest. He hadn’t saved the child Jaskier had been. It was stupid. An impossible thought. But Jaskier was young, and while he’d been suffering, Geralt had been, what? Slaying drowners? A kikimora no one hired him for? He </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> have known. And yet . . . he had been somewhere. Doing something less important. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shook his head and got up. Strained the tea through a cloth into a wooden cup and handed it over as he resumed his seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier unfolded, sitting up straighter to take it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hawthorn berries and passionflower.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard lifted an eyebrow at him. “Passionflower sounds like it might be asking a bit much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grinned at him, briefly. “It’s for boundaries and spinning thoughts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier watched the steam rising from the cup and blew on it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boundaries,” he whispered, and swallowed, fighting whatever emotions threatened behind his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt shifted closer, aching to touch and unsure if he should. So he watched the fire and kept his attention on Jaskier’s shaking. Sat quietly and breathed slow and measured. He let the bard finish his tea. And when the cup was set aside, Geralt laid back on his bed roll, his movement tugging at Jaskier’s attention. He gazed back mildly when the bard looked at him and smiled to himself when Jaskier, too, stretched out on the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They rolled to face one another and an hour ago seemed a lifetime. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier blinked at him, dull and miserable. “What changes now?” he asked in a voice not the one Geralt knew. Jaskier’s voice was strong, confident, could draw the eye and fill a room. But this, so small and brittle . . . </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt frowned at him. “Why would anything change?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier sighed. “I didn’t want you to know. And now you know.” Shame seared across his face, and a few more tears crept out from closed eyelids before he could stop them. He sucked a thick breath to calm himself and opened his eyes. “Do you still—” He hesitated over the words and slowly reached out. Touched Geralt’s chest lightly, tracing a faint line on his shirt before pulling away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt watched the gesture, breathless and afraid to move as the touch echoed with the unfilled promises of the night. What they had planned to do. Share.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Want you?” he said, the words bruising his heart. “Yes. But I doubt now is a good time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier nodded, the corner of his mouth quirking. He played with the fabric of the bed roll, keeping his attention downcast to his own fingers. Geralt reached out and gathered Jaskier’s hand in his own, pressing heat into it. Letting the arcane fire of his touch work its subtle magic. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut, and he sighed as Geralt stroked a thumb slowly against his wrist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This he could do. Press more bare skin together. Jaskier had told him once that the feel of his skin was the feeling of safety, and if he could not be a shield or a sword, he could be a sanctuary. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt freed one of his hands, still caressing the pulse point with the other, and nudged aside the hem of Jaskier’s shirt. He reached up, brushed warm skin. But Jaskier’s body tightened with recoil and his eyes flashed open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” the witcher said quickly. “I thought . . .” It seemed stupid now. “Contact would help.” He squeezed on the bard’s hand for emphasis.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier nodded with small jerking motions and licked his lips. His gaze focused on their joined hands. “Maybe . . . try my back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt obeyed, moving closer and sliding his hand from Jaskier’s clothed hip up under the back of his shirt. This time, the bard did not jump. Didn’t shy from him. And Geralt himself could relax as he slid his hand and then forearm against his lover’s spine, the summer heat be damned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Be safe now. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He spread his fingers to cover more area, and Jaskier’s shoulders relaxed. Geralt curled the bard’s hand against his chest. They lay so close, foreheads almost touching. And yet worry wound around the witcher’s heart, a vine of tiny thorns. How many blunders had he packed into a single night? How many in the past year?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How many small hurts because he hadn’t known any better?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swallowed, loathe to break the silence, but he had to know, before he broke something else. “Are there things I shouldn’t do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time passed to the creak of insects. Long enough that he thought Jaskier might not answer, even though the cadence of his breathing said he was awake. Geralt squeezed on his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier opened his eyes and stared vacantly, not meeting the witcher’s gaze. He cleared his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve been together awhile now. You already know what I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier.” Admonishing. “Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard’s face reddened, and his breaths grew shallow. “I . . . quite like using my mouth on you. But don’t force me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had asked and still the answer struck him like a thunder crack. Had he? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Had</span>
  </em>
  <span> he? He couldn’t remember, and the blank made his blood chill. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the meaning of monster in Jaskier’s eyes, and he would remember now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt brushed his thumb across Jaskier’s knuckles and made a sound of assent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And no . . .” The bard pressed his mouth and eyes shut, frowning as he worked something through. “No demeaning talk,” he said eventually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Demeaning talk . . .” Geralt echoed, getting his mind around the shape of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking take it, you little slut!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt jerked back from the sudden, cutting viciousness. Piercing ice. The cold mud of horror swamped his throat as he understood this to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reenactment</span>
  </em>
  <span> for his benefit. Dredged memories put on display. He shuddered and felt his gorge rise. As the outburst subsided, Jaskier’s face went slack, and he blinked with slow dullness. Stared at nothing once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not all hauntings were of the dead. And Lettenhove’s ghost took terrible form in the witcher’s imagination. His kind were meant to slay ghosts, and the guilt weighed in his belly again that he had been elsewhere while this one spread its rot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt carefully arranged himself closer again. Made sure his palm pressed between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. That their clutched hands settled near his heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not much of a talker,” he said eventually. That got a smile around the eyes, and he breathed a little easier. “Anything else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier shook his head faintly. “Not that I can think of,” he said, voice lifeless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Guilt still clung to Geralt’s skin like damp cloth. This secret was not his to know. Not one he had been worthy of knowing. A part of him wondered how he had failed in that regard, but it was a question beyond asking now. A lump formed in his throat, burning like a coal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurt just to speak. “Roche is an ass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier huffed without humor, and his eyelids drooped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heart-sore, Geralt slipped his hand out from under the bard’s shirt and uncurled their clutched fingers as drowsiness laid gentle palms across his features. Geralt kept vigil as Jaskier’s breaths grew longer. His pulse slower. The sorrowful scent around him faded as he drifted into slumber. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt awoke to the scrutiny of blue eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re captivating while you sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier was always free with his compliments, doting on anyone who would listen. He loved their hair, their eyes, their smiles, their laughs. A currency cheap for its abundance. And so when he turned them Geralt’s way. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His</span>
  </em>
  <span> hair, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> eyes, his rare smile, or rarer laugh, his instinct was to parry them as meaningless chatter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet. No one </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> said such things. And what was cheap currency but precious to a pauper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier had told him once that there was beauty in the wild cliffs of Skellige. Beauty in the awesome power of a thunderstorm. And that while he may never be a delicate and pretty flower, he was very</span>
  <em>
    <span> much</span>
  </em>
  <span> a storm. The bard’s heart had betrayed no lie, and despite himself Geralt had wanted to believe him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the roads to belief are all unreasoned. And he could not think his way along their path. And his heart waited for the punchline at the end of this long jest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier brushed his fingers over Geralt’s eyebrow and down his cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And when I’m awake?” the witcher asked him, jolts shooting across his nerves down through his legs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smile. “Dangerous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lips twitched, and then he parted them under a questing touch. Opened wider as Jaskier nudged a fingertip inside. And then closed his teeth with light pressure, slowly increasing. Eyelids fluttered, and the bard sucked a stuttering breath. On impulse, Geralt leaned forward and took the whole finger into his mouth, sealing his lips. He sucked and swirled his tongue, and Jaskier’s exhale came out ragged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt let him go, gliding off with tight lips. Then captured another, making a sound low in his chest at Jaskier’s surprised little gasp. Letting his teeth scrape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took the ring and little fingers together, holding Jaskier’s darkening gaze as he did so. Hearing his pulse jump as he sucked. He lavved his tongue up the soft, sensitive undersides, and Jaskier’s hips flexed in response as he sighed, never looking away. As Geralt slowly drew off, he swirled his tongue wet and gentle, again, again, until the bard was free. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He licked the spit from his lips and smiled with satisfaction at the wanton expression on Jaskier’s face. The bard’s breathing had quickened, and he rolled onto his back to compose himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Also a tease,” he said eventually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt gazed over at him. That he could tell, Jaskier’s sleep had been restful. He’d kept vigil for nightmares or sudden wakings before catching a few brief hours of his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard had feared that something would change. So . . . he would ensure that nothing did. Geralt got up and set about his morning routine. Take a piss in the woods. Comb out his sweat-matted hair and tie it back. Find something to eat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The forest was thick with the scent of berbercane, and Geralt followed it to a small cluster of trees heavy with ripe fruit. The thin skins bruised easily and wouldn’t travel well, so there was little point in taking more than they would eat for a meal. He returned to find Jaskier crouched near the fire pit straining some tea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was an ordinary thing to be doing on a summer morning. As was levering up to standing. And plucking one of the fruits from the basket Geralt had made of his shirt. And yet the witcher could feel every movement he made like another sense. Watched the way Jaskier’s hands moved and his mouth quirked and the breeze touched his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt frowned and tried to shake off the awareness of Jaskier’s heartbeat loud in his ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything all right?” the bard asked breezily, sucking berbercane juice from his lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt blinked at him and dropped the extra fruit onto one of the upturned logs. “Fine,” he said, not sure that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier looked unconvinced but didn’t comment, eyeing him and picking up a second fruit. “Lovely breakfast. Thanks for these.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was that sincere? Too sincere? Or sarcastic. Why would Jaskier be sarcastic about simple fruit for breakfast that he was obviously enjoying?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt scowled at himself with a small growl and reached automatically when the bard handed him his cup of tea. Their fingers touched, sparking a warm shock through his body, and he tried to remember if that normally happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It went on like that. Through eating and packing. Geralt heaved Roach’s saddle onto her back and aligned it with the pads, then moved to the other side to cinch the girth. Jaskier waited at his side with the saddle bags, ready to strap them on when he was done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt steeled himself and tried to focus. And yet his attention dragged to Jaskier’s posture, the rhythm of his breathing, even his scent. When he shifted so he couldn’t see him, he was still </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>, pinging on the witcher’s awareness like a bell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re being weird.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt paused, huffed, and waited for Roach to exhale a little before he finished belting the strap. “I’m trying not to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scowled, mostly because it was true, and left Jaskier to deal with the saddle bags while he got his sword pack. They tied everything into place, which should have been as relaxed and practiced as sleeping. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier glared at him across Roach’s rump. “Will you just stop!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doing what?” He let annoyance slip into his tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever”—Jaskier gestured at him—”this is!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you.” Geralt unslung the stirrups and let them drop into place. “I’m trying not to be weird.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard pressed his lips together. In the next moment, he rounded the horse, grabbed Geralt by the shoulders and spun him so they faced one another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I may summarize,” he said. “You’re being weird, by trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be weird. Is that right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt opened his mouth once. Shut it. Frowned. And then sighed. “Apparently.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, stop it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How!” He tossed his hands in the air, exasperation a hot tension in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stared at one another while Jaskier slowly chewed on his lower lip. He put his hands on his hips. And eventually dropped them to his sides in defeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I see your point.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a roll of his eyes, Geralt turned and hauled himself up on Roach’s back. He gave the little campsite a quick look to be sure the fire was out and they hadn’t left anything obvious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you double-check?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I double-checked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard had his lute case strung across his back and, ridiculously, donned his doublet, as though there were anyone to impress. Geralt nodded at him and nudged Roach into motion toward the road. Jaskier stood for a moment in stunned silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” he called toward Geralt’s back. “We’re going back to this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher shrugged and ducked a branch as they emerged onto the hard-packed dirt. He heard Jaskier’s hurried crashing through the foliage and a muttered, “Unbelievable,” behind him. They were in no hurry, so he let his horse set her own pace. And yet even with the growing distance between them, he couldn’t help clocking Jaskier’s position and vital signs. Did he sound tired? Winded? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was, Geralt realized eventually, monitoring if Jaskier was </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And that thought, prodded with a sharp stick, revealed its soft underbelly. The hurts themselves were long passed, and all that remained in the present was fear. Fear the bard had told him plainly. If he could not settle past scores, he had to assuage present fears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt pulled Roach to a stop and stared at her flicking ears. “I’m doing it all wrong,” he told her. She tossed her head a little and jostled in place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt?” Jaskier’s steps quickened to a jog, bringing him swiftly near. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Words were fleeing prey, and Geralt felt their empty shape in his throat. He switched the hand holding the reins and reached down. “C’mon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard blinked at his outstretched hand and then frowned, looking like he was going to argue. Then visibly changed his mind, gripped Geralt’s hand, and let himself be pulled up, with a briefly vacated stirrup for balance. Jaskier settled in, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist in their accustomed position. He did not lean in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you going to tell me why you made me walk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt switched the reins back and spoke over his shoulder. “I needed time to think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. And?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I figured out why I was acting strangely.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nudged Roach into motion again, and Jaskier’s hands tightened. A moment later Jaskier’s chin came to rest on Geralt’s shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Were you planning on sharing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really,” he said, knowing it wasn’t the right answer to give and yet still tensing when Jaskier sat back. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Are you well?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the tone of his voice, he could picture the bard’s astonished expression. “Am I </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” After a moment’s stunned silence, Jaskier went on. “I’m going to assume you don’t mean rested, fed, and watered. So…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt slid his free hand to cover one of Jaskier’s. And that brought on another long silence. One the bard didn’t seem to know how to fill, though he shifted his grip to press Geralt’s hand between both of his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They traveled on under the shade of the forest. It was too early yet to be truly hot and truly humid, but it hung with the promise of glistening plums. For now, Jaskier could rest his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder without it causing a bloom of sweat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose so,” he said quietly, so long after the question had been asked, Geralt almost forgot what it was he was supposing. “I’m not unwell. The sleeping helped.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt hummed and felt the weight of conversation fall to him. There were plenty of things he would not ask, and so he groped for something he could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Were there any good parts of being an aristocrat?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier drew a deep breath and exhaled thoughtfully, the motion of his body transmitting perfectly into a small smile on Geralt’s lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The food. I mean, olive oil everything, of course. But banquets competed for the most exotic, most delicious, most decadent fare.” Jaskier lifted his head and dropped his chin on Geralt’s shoulder again. “Material things, really. Nice fabrics, oils, perfumes. Nothing you can’t live without.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But things you can easily miss.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard hummed in agreement. Geralt had thought Jaskier’s penchant for finer things was pointless frivolity. A poor man’s attempt to lift himself up in whatever small way he could. He saw now an air of nostalgia about it. A hoarding of the things he valued from the life he fled. And every time he had shared a bit of it, he had offered a piece of this hidden self. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However many times Geralt had scoffed, he now thought it was too many. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought of the other things he knew now. A name. Jaskier’s real one. An unexpected thing to have in common with his companion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never tell anyone this. But, Geralt wasn’t my original name.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier shifted to stare at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vesemir had us choose new names for our new lives. I chose this one. So . . . in a way I understand that part.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Leaving it all behind you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.” For several minutes there was only the sound of horse hooves on packed earth as they followed the road around a bend. “Pity though,” Geralt said, “it suits you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?” Jaskier voice, low and close to his ear. “How so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt smirked. “Long and rambling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jasker pinched him and sat back abruptly, disentangling their hands. “Ass.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chuckling, Geralt snatched his fingers with preternatural speed and placed one hand back where it had been. He gave it a calming pat and then let his own hand drop to rest against his leg. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard fell quiet awhile. That stewing sort of quiet that would break of its own accord eventually. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you do me a favor?” he asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grunted a question back at him, scanning the road and forest idly. His attention shifted when Jaskier pressed against his back and rested his chin lightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Say my name,” the bard said quietly. “Just the first one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He considered this as they rocked slowly to the horse’s gait. Geralt let the sound and shape of it build in his throat first. It had been clear the night before that Jaskier thought his name to be an ugly thing, a cursed thing. Geralt was always handy with curses in more ways than one. And so he rounded the sounds into a purr. Lengthened their form with longing. Turned slightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Julian . . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt a slight shiver in the body pressed against him, then Jaskier’s strong arm hugging him closer. An audible swallow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe . . . I don’t hate it as much as I thought.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt smiled at his minor victory and turned his attention back to their path. As the sun rose higher and the air grew hot and heavy, Jaskier made space between them for comfort. He left one hand on Geralt’s hip for balance, but that was all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Birds sang and chortled through the canopy. A fox stalked a rabbit, if Geralt was reading their heartbeats right. The trees, he noted, were too close for any sizable beasts like griffins. And if any leshen claimed these woods as home, the road would have been carved elsewhere. Wolves were distinctly possible, though unlikely in the abundance of summer. A witcher read nature like a bard read music, infusing himself with its passions and intent. A forest was never calm unless something was wrong, and so the noise was a balm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The road made a sharp turn away from a giant elm, and as they rounded the path, Geralt pulled Roach to a stop. He squinted through the dappling light ahead of them. And then snorted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Jaskier leaned to the side to peer around him. “Something wrong? Why’d we stop?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt drew a deep breath and sighed. “Vernon is standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms like an idiot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” The bard voice brightened. “Where?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher pointed straight ahead, as though there were any other options. “He’s in shadow, but it’s him. No one else has that stupid hat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier leaned against him, peering, but with human eyes he was unlikely to see much. “Hmm.” He quickly dropped back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think we’ll go extra slow, so he has to wait,” Geralt said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And then?” Jaskier’s voice had gone tense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And then . . . I tell him to fuck off.” </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They proceeded at a truly plodding pace. Roche had long since stopped waving his arms and stood instead with them crossed like he knew very well how long it </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> take to span the distance between them and how long it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> taking. Jaskier remained remarkably quiet on their approach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I see campfires,” he whispered at one point, though they were far out of hearing range.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grunted in acknowledgment and kept his gaze on Vernon steady. A long, drawn out swaggering stalk. He almost wanted to smile when they came within shouting distance but restrained himself. He did smirk as they drew close enough to make out the scowl on Roche’s face. Geralt turned his horse slightly aside to angle her head out of the way and lifted his hand in the sign of Igni as they came to a stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon dropped his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt narrowed his eyes at him. “Was I unclear last night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon checked the raised hand. “What, I made sure you could see me. No surprises this time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have our answer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche inclined his head. “But I have a new question.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it better than mine?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche tilted his head and frowned. “What’s yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A feral smile. “How long do you think it takes to burn to death?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche, the implacable bastard, rolled his eyes. “Geralt, come on. I told you last night, things are serious around here. We’re trying to fight the Bonny Plague, and as it turns out we have need of someone with your talents.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man’s heartbeat never wavered, and Geralt dropped his hand, curiosity and duty getting the best of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon took a deep breath and visibly relaxed. “We were trying to contain Frosditch. Turns out the industrious people there already contained themselves quite splendidly. With a graveir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt frowned down at him. “How do you know it’s a graveir?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because,” Roche shrugged, “we built ladders to look over the town walls to see what all the screaming was about, and one of my men saw that weird mouth of theirs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grunted. Of all the necrophages, graveirs did have the weirdest mouths. It wasn’t an impossible conclusion for a soldier to have come to if he’d seen enough monsters in his travels. Jaskier’s fingers tightened into the shirt near Geralt’s hip, and his pulse quickened as the conversation stretched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt,” Vernon went on, “the town’s already infected. We can’t let anyone out, whether they’re sick or not. And with that thing in there—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cursed inwardly. “Even the healthy ones will die.” A sharp sigh. “Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Jaskier’s voice was close and loud in his ear. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt twisted to look at him. “Off the horse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” A storm gathered in those blue eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get. Off. The. Horse.” It was one of Geralt’s more threatening tones, and after a second of tense silence, Jaskier grabbed him ungently and swung himself to the ground. Geralt looked down, unsurprised to find Jaskier glaring daggers at him. “You’re not going into a plague-infested charnel house,” he added, more gently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard took a breath, but Geralt cut him off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t get sick. You know that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A small battle of wills erupted between them. And Jaskier’s petulance briefly revealed itself as worry before he sharpened it again and turned abruptly toward Roche.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And how much are you offering to pay him for this service?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon had the decency to look abashed. “I told you—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, no money,” Jaskier drawled. “Just . . . risk his life for free.” He glanced up, meeting Geralt’s gaze with an inscrutable look. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up from the troops,” he said, and it sounded more defeated than angry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher could think of nothing to say to him. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to Frosditch even if Geralt had to clap him in irons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt averted his gaze to Vernon instead. “How far and which way?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A necrophage wouldn’t be active until nightfall, so there was little reason to hurry. Even so, Geralt kicked his horse into a trot and left the Blue Stripes’ encampment behind. Roche’s directions weren’t much. Ride to where the path diverged. Head west to the edge of the wood. It should take an hour or so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He arrived at the branching path sticky and sweating from the heat. He’d encountered no one else. By comparison to Redania, Temeria was deserted. Evidence, perhaps, of Roche’s efficacy. Or, perhaps, exactly the opposite, if there was no one left. Grimacing, he headed west. The land sloped down a gentle grade, and he could see piercing daylight ahead of him and smell smoke. The edge of the woods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone had been busy. The forest on either side of the road bore the scars of logging as he moved from dense shade into light cover. And eventually horse and rider emerged from the treeline onto the edge of a valley.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt paused to look down at the flat wooden roofs and tall wooden walls of parti-color logs. He narrowed his eyes and glanced back at the clear cut tree stumps behind him. Black oily smoke lifted in curls of pulsing fists into the air from the center of the town, layering the stench of cooked meat and a gray haze across the valley. Geralt’s stomach pulled tight, and he grimaced.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Men loitered in ones and twos around the town walls packing sacks and split logs onto pallets, and he watched several meander slowly back and forth up the length of a side. Roche’s soldiers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess we’d better introduce ourselves,” he said, and Roach swiveled an ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Several of the soldiers noticed him immediately and stood, and, like their commander, waited for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> to reach them. Eventually one moved to the middle of the road and held up both hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Frosditch is closed!” he called.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt flicked a look at the barred gate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. Roche sent me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second soldier strode up beside the first, and his eyes widened. A smile split his face. “You’re the White Wolf, ain’t cha? With that hair?” He smacked his comrade on the arm. “Merle, the commander sent a witcher!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Merle’s manner changed almost instantly. Relief washing the tension out of him. “You’re here for the graveir, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt nodded once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soldier blew out a breath. “Melitele, sir, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams</span>
  </em>
  <span> . . . They’ve enough suffering already with the plague.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second one spoke up again. “Anything you need, Geralt? Uh, can I call you Geralt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s my name.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Yeah. Love those songs,” the man said, a little breathless. “Anything we can get you?’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt considered the walled town and the soldiers staring hopefully in his direction. “Someplace to prepare. And I want to take a look around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier lingered near the quartermaster’s cart under a cover of dense shade. He took a deep drink of pathetically lukewarm water that tasted of tannins and turned from the man approaching him, as though he hadn’t seen. It was a petty thing. But he was hot, and irritated, and in no mood. The bard set his cup back on the barrel with a loud clack and started undoing the clasps on his doublet. Even in the fucking shade the air was soup.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vernon Roche took the cup quietly and got himself his own drink. He guzzled down the water in one continuous swallow and watched for a moment. Waiting. Must have been sweating under all that blue and grey.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier shucked off the doublet and tied the sleeves around his waist, then rolled his undershirt to the elbows. And finally, when he could think of nothing else to do, acknowledged the Temerian’s presence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s all you get for free, if you were wondering.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche arched an eyebrow at him and hesitated at speaking. He set the empty cup back on the barrel and leaned against the cart, turning to face the encampment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and rough. “I truly didn’t know you hadn’t told him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> I? Done everything I can to leave that house as far behind as possible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche looked over at him, dark eyes keen as blades. “And yet you carry it close to the heart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up and he reeled back with false laughter. “Oh, hohoho! Life lessons from the King’s Dog?” he crooned. “I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Please do tell me more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche only stared at him, waiting out his petulance. “The </span>
  <em>
    <span>King’s Dog</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a poor street rat selling more than his soul in Vizima’s gutters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The summer air seemed to blow a chill across Jaskier’s arms, and he met Roche’s gaze with a sudden somberness, the edge of his disdain blunting. He worked his jaw but said nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The King’s Dog,” Roche went on, “can’t imagine what it would take to leave luxury and wealth behind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier shook his head and slowly mirrored the Temerian’s pose, leaning against the cart and looking out at the camp scattered among the trees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve got it wrong,” he said, pitched barely above the rustle of leaves. “I left behind a prison. And darkness. I left behind not knowing who I was or what I wanted or what I had done so </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This”—he gestured vaguely around them—“this is freedom out here. Every day, I choose who I am and what I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche grunted. A sound much like one Geralt would make.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re so free,” he asked, “why not tell him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard drew a breath and sighed. He picked up his lute case and slung it over his shoulder as he pushed away from the cart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I thought I was protecting . . . something,” he said. “Him. Me. I’m not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Afraid of what he might do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier shrugged one shoulder. “Of what it might cost.”</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some of Roche’s troops had gathered themselves around makeshift tables built of sawhorses and planks. They ate. Drank. And played cards, all with a quiet soberness that Jaskier rarely saw among soldiers. It took either a certain bravado or a certain dullness of mind to enlist, in his opinion. Scanning the faces of the men and women seated together, he found neither. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If they’d had bravado, they’d been schooled otherwise. And the lack of shine . . . well, that was the spirit seen in their eyes. Several looked at him the same way as he approached, unflappable acceptance of his unexpected presence shifting to something like interest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of them, young, younger than Jaskier even, nudged a man next to him studying his cards and pointed. The cards slowly sank to the table, and a murmur among them had them all turning as a unit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier flung open his arms and smiled. “Good afternoon, Temerian Blue Stripes! How are we this dreadful summer’s day?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche followed several paces behind, and one of the women cast him a look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got us a bard, did you commander?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche shrugged easily and smiled at her. “Figured you could use a break.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier twisted to give him an arch, Did You Now? look that deflected off Roche’s poised exterior.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You hear that, Brion?” One of the card players said. Sandy hair. Regrettable mustache. “No more of your caterwauling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The young one, green eyes, lovely, straightened and mugged an offended expression. “Didn’t seem to mind my caterwauling last night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone around the table laughed, and Jaskier got the impression that this was indeed a unit—a family crafted from found things—and not just a random collection of soldiers. For Blue Stripes they were decided un-blue and un-stripey. To a person, they’d stripped down to thin wool leggings that would easily sweat through and gray linen shirts that were rolled to the elbows or shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier smiled at their humor and unslung his lute case. He quickly settled the instrument across his chest and started tuning, while they all just stared at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He winked. “This isn’t the fun part.” And then continued plucking at strings, tilting his head as he made adjustments.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beside him, Roche stood like he was awaiting inspection, tall and straight in a heavy coat that fell below his knees. He cut a good image. Very striking. Very stern. The kind of man with silver at his temples who drank rye on the rocks and never married the mistress he never meant to love. The lute’s discordant notes warbled into harmony as Jaskier turned a peg, and the silent soldiers all watched Roche take a hand from behind his back and mop at his forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman snorted. “C’mon commander, take it off. You’re gonna get heat stroke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Green Eyes grinned. “Listen to Ves. We’re all friends here, commander.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A big man with dark hair and a neat beard smiled. “Besides, who are we gonna tell? Report you to yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche rolled his eyes at the lot of them, shifted uncomfortably, and sighed. He doffed the heavy overcoat. The woman, Ves, whistled, and the table exploded into clapping and cheers, deepening Roche’s scowl. He pinned Ves with a look that slid briefly in Jaskier’s direction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s all you get for free,” Roche said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s mouth twitched. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instantly, the Blue Stripes’ commander looked more like the others, more human. He folded his coat neatly and set it on the table. Then started rolling his sleeves up with meticulous, even folds. The only thing setting him apart, aside from bearing, was that ridiculous hat. Roche waved for his people to make room, and he took a seat on the bench with the rest of them, leaving Jaskier the only one standing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stared at the hat while he tuned the last string. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s like someone put trousers on your head,” he said suddenly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a terrible moment, everyone stared at him in silence, and he felt his pulse start to race. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Green Eyes snorted, and everyone doubled over in howls. Roche’s face turned a little pink under their mocking, and he cut Jaskier a hard look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard beamed at him. And, feeling generous, “You must tell me where you got it, or I will hunt down a haberdasher myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche’s expression turned perplexed, caught between offended and complimented, and Jaskier winked at him to stir him up further. If it entertained his soldiers, it might lighten their purses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier strummed his fingers across the lute strings, and the harmonious sound brought the cackling laughter to a calmed, smiling quiet. He had their total attention. And the looks in their eyes had taken on a polish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, any favorites?” he asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman spoke first. “I’ll listen to anything so long as it isn’t about the plague.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The big bearded man grunted. “Heard enough dirges lately.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier nodded at them. “Right. Although, since I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> immortalize you all in song eventually, one question. Why do they call it the Bonny Plague?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The card player answered. “Cause that’s the first symptom! Bright red cheeks and lips, like a tarted up whore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Emile!” Roche shot the man a glare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uhh . . . prostitute.” He bowed his head. “Sorry, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How </span>
  <em>
    <span>interesting</span>
  </em>
  <span> . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Foltest shut the brothels down just after it started,” Ves offered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“More ‘n that,” a new voice said. Red hair, Roche’s age. “Outlawed all sex ‘tween more ‘an two people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier blinked. “I’m sorry. He did </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Banned orgies,” Ves said with a nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard found himself wanting to laugh, except no one else was laughing. His stomach tightened as he held it in. “Well that’s . . . boring.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roche shrugged at him. “Better than the plague, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right . . . well . . .” Jaskier gave it all a thought, glancing slowly around his attentive audience. “If we can’t do it, let’s sing about it, hmm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grinned, shot Roche a lascivious look, and the Temerians pounded on the table in reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Blue Stripes kept giving him strange looks. Not wary, disdainful ones. Something more unsettling. Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopeful</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You, their eyes said, know what you’re doing. Briefly, relief would cross their grim expressions as he put on his armor or drew a whetstone down his silver sword. For just a moment, they would let him see it. Smile shyly. And then turn away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Terrified. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were, all of them, terrified. And while they might plaster it over with stiff lips and regulation guard duty, they still reeked of it. And yet . . . stayed, until a shift change came to relieve them. Whether it would have been better to leave the same soldiers on guard or rotate them out, Geralt couldn’t say. He had little experience with disease and contagion. When it came to pressing your luck, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt</span>
  </em>
  <span> sensible not to force one’s luck too far, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt had taken a walk around the perimeter without a human escort. The walls had been freshly patched and reinforced with tall pale trunks and earthen cement. Roche had spoken true when he said the people of Frosditch closed themselves in. Warning must have come, and an order to shut the town to outsiders. By the extent of the new construction, such an order had not come in a long time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, the walls were sturdy. A valley surrounded by forest must be home to many woodworkers with skilled hands. As fortifications went, they had done the job proper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He found no obvious holes in their defenses and instead mapped the layout by the scents in the air. Even through the layer of smoke and death that hung like fog, he could make out the wheat of a bakery. The iron of a blacksmith. Sharp alcohol, a tavern, maybe? Along the eastern wall, where a gate could open leading down the valley to the sea, putrefaction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s lip curled, and he marked it as a likely place to start his hunt. If he had to guess, they were piling the dead there before burning them, since you could only burn so many at once. And a fire like that needed fuel. Perhaps more fuel than the town had on hand anymore, unless they burned the houses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That thought slowed his steps, and he peered at the wall as though a witcher’s vision might pierce. It would explain a concentrated pile of bodies . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt pressed his lips and moved on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heard the sloshing water of a laundry and could make out the scent of lye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Little else gave him a sense of the town’s interior, and he returned to the Blue Stripes’ campfire at the west gate with a plan in mind.  </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sergeant Andrepont sent two of her patrol with Geralt to the eastern gate, while the remainder labored at their assigned task. Strip off the barricade. Quietly. And in easily restored pieces. She swore it would be done, and the witcher left his escape in her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His part, then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two soldiers making noise behind him bore a ladder that would get him over the walls. They were unwilling to leave such a useful means of escape vulnerable to Frosditch’s desperate inhabitants, and so as soon as he was in, they would take it and run. And he would be on his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the preferable way to hunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt closed his eyes and scented the air. He didn’t want to drop in too close to the stench of the dead. The graveir might just as easily surprise him as he it. He picked a spot along the wall he judged several house lengths from where the smell was strongest and motioned to the soldiers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without a word, they set the ladder against the tall wall and held it in place. Geralt reached for the potion bottles in his pouch, fingering the smooth glass as he considered again their use. Black Blood to turn himself toxic to a necrophage. Thunderbolt for power, though the side effects would leave him clumsy. Tawny Owl to push his system toward maximum healing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three potions would shut down his organs, though. He had to choose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt plucked the round globe of Black Blood from this pouch, pulled the stopper, and swallowed it down with a gut-twisting grimace. It oozed like jelly slime and slid thick and cold across his tongue, tasting like ash and iron, blood and rotted wood. He tried not to let any of it swirl in his mouth or touch his teeth. Just shot it straight down, where it sunk like an icicle through his guts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grunted and bent as the magic and mutagens flared in response to one another. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt?” one of the men whispered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He held up a hand and waved them off, panting as ice water burst through his body. It ripped up and down his arms and legs, leaving numbness. Then fire. He shook as the changes in his blood took hold. Squeezed his eyes shut against flares of pain through his skull and blinding flashes of magic light in his vision. His joints throbbed, then ached. Then screamed as though bent backward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pressed his lips together, suppressing a cry of pain, and waited as the chill of snowbanks settled on his skin. The howl of deep winter clenched claws into his bones. He coughed once, and his mouth tasted like his teeth were rusted nails. He wavered through a rush of nausea and rising gorge and snarled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Almost ready,” he said, his voice unsteady.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He straightened with effort and did not open his eyes. The Thunderbolt, he had decided, and felt for the simple rectangular bottle. It had a wide mouth, and he shuddered as he put the stopper back into his pouch, the strong scent of bryonia blossoms hitting his nose first. Then light verbena, as the volatile oils escaped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thunderbolt glistened with its own inner fire. Suspended gems of magical power in thin, strong alcohol, more burning than any spirit humans could consume. It tasted like flowers and umami mushrooms. Felt like coals. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the worst. The worst was the embryo suspended in the menstruum. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt guzzled down the liquid until he felt the hot, slick bolus of flesh slide into his mouth. And then he held it all, liquid and solid mass, without swallowing. Pressed the embryo into place between his teeth. And bit down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chitin carapace crunched. Foul liquid flooded across his tongue, mixing with the Thunderbolt’s alcohol. He chewed, mixing it well, and felt jolts of magic arc across his palate. He swallowed immediately, scowling as he picked the endrega bits out of his teeth with his tongue to make sure he got it all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It . . . activated the rest of the potion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waited, careful to put the bottle back in his pouch while he still had full control. And braced for the moment of catalyzation. Thunderbolt didn’t feel like it sounded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All at once, his stomach felt full to bursting, then cramped. Geralt sucked a breath and felt thumping up his back like being hit with a shovel. It cracked against his skull with a ring that left him deaf, and then energy rushed down from the top of his head in a wave of gooseflesh. His limbs turned light, weightless. His pulse quickened to a dreadful pace, fast for even a human. And then the worse part. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gooseflesh chill faded into an itching that gnawed at his bones. A distracting, maddening sensation over every inch of his being. His fingers spasmed with the need to claw into his own arms, and he ground his teeth in restraint. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, panting, Geralt looked up at the waiting soldiers and saw them flinch. His eyes would be empty pits in the pale flesh of his moonlit face. If they had seen a man at all before, a hero, a savior. They saw the beast now, and he could hear it in their hearts. Smell it in their forming sweat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One swallowed. “A-are you ready, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher grunted and focused his attention on moving. He scaled the ladder without ripping off any of the rungs and vaulted himself over the wall. He landed more loudly than he would have liked, the Thunderbolt gnawing away at his natural grace, and pulled his silver sword from its sheath. The necrophage oil adorning the blade shimmered a faint green and smelled deceptively sweet. Almost edible.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimly, Geralt heard the soldiers hurrying away and turned his attention to his hunt. He’d landed between two houses that smelled of human and wood and smoke. No candlelights in the windows. Asleep. Or hiding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closed his eyes and listened harder. Sobbing. Coughing. Wheezing breaths. A woman’s moan. A man’s. Nothing obviously helpful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt decided first to follow his nose and slid through the shadows of the back alley near the wall toward the house that smelled like death. He raised a gloved hand to face and scowled as the smell clotted the air. Those who weren’t sick with plague would surely be sick from this alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On silent feet, he crept toward the more central streets. Whoever had made their selection of pyres wasn’t a complete fool. It was neither the closest to the wall nor the closest to the gate. If they demolished the neighboring buildings first, they could burn it without bringing down the whole town. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt reached the back door and paused, snarling as he scratched at his chin and neck, unable to get relief through the thick hide of his gloves. With effort he focused and did not think of the smell of rotting corpses. He had seen worse. Been </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside</span>
  </em>
  <span> worse. But no horror compares to the one you’re currently in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door was locked. Geralt pressed his lips and turned the knob with a quick jerk so it snapped. And then carefully pushed the door in as he readied his sword for a stab or parry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stench staggered him. Putrid meat and blood decaying in high summer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should go in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But for a just a moment, his stomach tumbled and his boots stayed glued to the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he was inside, his eyes aching as they adjusted to the near total darkness. Eyelids itching—</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t make it more than two steps inside. Didn’t have to. The carnage spoke clear enough from where he stood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A butcher would have done a cleaner job. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Body parts lay in piles of unidentifiable oozing masses around the room. Ripped and broken to expose their marrow to the graveir’s sinuous tongue. Decaying flesh bloated. Dried blood on every surface from flung, disposed morsels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The necrophage had feasted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it had moved on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt backed out of the building and pulled the door closed. It creaked back open on its broken latch. He scowled and briefly considered setting the whole thing on fire himself. But there might be more bodies and not enough sources of fuel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would have to prowl the streets, then, like a beast the humans feared. Silent feet brought him to the main thoroughfare, which had been lined and lit with torches. Someone wasn’t entirely stupid. Geralt peered around the edge of a quiet house and watched for movement. Dimly lit in confusing shadows, he spotted a single guard wandering around the water well at the center of the town, a silhouette against the still-burning funeral pyre.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt slipped from the side street into full view of the main causeway and strode for the well. Quick, purposeful, but quiet strides. He forgot to be loud for human ears, and so the guard had his back turned starting to head away when the witcher was finally within speaking range.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he said, quite unthreatening, he thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard startled and whirled and held his sword out, fully extended toward Geralt’s chest. The witcher glanced down at it. With no arm left to extend, there was no thrust to be had—the guard was a child holding a dog at bay with a stick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt drew a patient breath. “Put that down,” he said, and gripped the blade with his gloved hand, gently lowering it out of his way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard jerked back a step, taking his sword clumsily with him. “Who are you?” he demanded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m here for the necrophage. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a necrophage, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard nodded and let his sword point drop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you’re aware it ate every corpse in the house near the gate?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another silent nod. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When was the last attack against the living?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard swallowed and stared at him with owlish eyes. “Uh, it uh—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop staring at my eyes and answer the question.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man shook himself and averted his gaze to the dirt instead. “Last night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Progress. “Can you show me where?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard nodded, not looking at him, and cast an unsure glance at the well. He chewed on his lip for a second and then turned abruptly on his heel. “Follow me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They wove through several of Frosditch’s streets until they came to a darkly stained house several doors from the bakery that smelled of straw and blood. The door was unlocked, and the guard led them both into the interior, black as a cave. Geralt heard the man sheath his sword and then fumble with a sparker.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A second later, the guard had a lit torch in his hand, holding it high to cast the light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We heard screams from in here,” he said, gesturing at the main room. “We chased it out, but it’d already got the parents.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt cocked a look at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Children living with their aunt now,” he said, subdued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt turned in a small circle, letting his eyes close. He struggled against the Thunderbolt’s cacophony to find the senses other than touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where did it go?” he asked, voice tight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t know. Thought it might go into the well, maybe. But there’s lots of empty houses now . . . Lots of places to hide.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt inhaled deeply and let the air roll off his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The woman was on her cycle,” he rumbled. “It probably smelled the blood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opened his eyes to find the guard staring at him again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How can you tell?” the man asked, looking around the busted and bloody furniture.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher pressed his lips together. “It has a certain scent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So . . . what?” The man huffed a laugh. “Gonna run around sniffing all the women now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s scowl deepened, the prick of annoyance in his chest lost among iron-scraped nerves. “No,” he said with a sneer. “I thought I’d just wait for the—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A woman screamed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt tilted his head and cast a wry look at the guard before he turned and bolted from the house. He flew down the street and across the central causeway, adrenaline and blood pumping, flesh screaming with the agony of nails on rocks. He followed the sound like a falcon tucked and dropping from the sky. Exploded through the front door to a hail of wooden splinters and got an impression of the scene in less than a blink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Supernatural speed brought his free hand to the dagger at his hip, and he hurled the blade at the naked, unnaturally large and pale thing he could see in the dark gloom. Whatever it was, he could be sure by the light of a fallen candle lantern it wasn’t human, and that was enough. The dagger sank in several inches, not to the hilt, but the creature noticed. It turned, clawing at its side with one hand, and dropped a lifeless man to the floor with a thud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A woman screamed a name and wailed, muffled through the ceiling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The graveir—Roche’s men spoke true—knocked the knife from its veined hide and turned. Chairs had been thrown against the wall already. The man had tried to run. No—had tried to lure it away while his wife ran, tossing furniture at it to keep its attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If his death was not to be in vain, Geralt needed to get the thing </span>
  <em>
    <span>out</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the house. Away from the screaming woman upstairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A table was the only unbroken thing between them. Too big for the man to have hurled. Too </span>
  <em>
    <span>in the way</span>
  </em>
  <span> to make for an easy fight. The witcher planned his moves like a dance. He darted forward, exactly two steps. Dropped. Threw an Aard up at the underside of the table to throw it aside. Rose into a lunge and sliced at the gravier while it was distracted by the explosive chaos. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt the sword bite and darted back toward the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The beast, confused, irritated, stood to its full height, its bony spikes carving wood curls from the ceiling. And then it bellowed—a sick, phlegmy sound of wheezed wailing and animal fury. As it moved, Geralt realized it was standing in front of a fireplace. While it thundered and thumped its chest, the witcher concentrated on the charred wood and dark coals. He made the sign of Igni and sent a thin thread of power that slipped beside the necrophage while it focused on his flashy, waving sword. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fire leaped to life, and the graveir startled, jumping away from the flames with a bellow of terror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt flashed white teeth. “C’mon, ugly!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It turned its attention from the fire to the slice he had placed on its arm, shaking the limb like it had caught embers. Geralt knew better. The necrophage oil on the blade was doing its work. Burning. Immobilizing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He taunted it again, and the graveir lashed its snake-tongue and widened the sphincter of its mouth to show ragged teeth like desert mountains. Geralt had to close enough space to make it lunge to get it moving. In the brighter light from the fire, he could see the obstacles now. A path to place his feet to put it between himself and the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Circling. Slowly. Teasing the edge of safety. He felt light but with a head of hornets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It grabbed for him. A great sweeping strike. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt jumped back, letting a parry sink more poison from his sword into the creature. But the scraping of his flesh against his bones made him slow to register its backswing. The graveir’s thick claw caught him on the side of the face, carving out flesh. He stumbled back toward the fireplace. Cast a small gout of Igni as a distraction while he regained his footing and smeared blood away from his eye. Hot pain throbbed and ebbed and he bore his teeth in anger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A blast of Igni fire followed, searing the necrophage’s chest. White skin curled and popped black as it cooked. And the thing screamed. It turned from him and scrambled for the door taking out a chunk of the door jamb with its spikes as it escaped into the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or tried to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt followed on its heels. Felt the kill in his jaws. He threw Aard at its head, and it stumbled forward, taking giant wheeling steps not to fall. Both hands closed on the hilt of his silver sword, flashing in the moonlight. Geralt was Thunder-strength and motion, never slowing as he drove his sword into its back and out through its chest, ripping through the tough hide from sheer force when the keen edge had no time to slice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both staggered forward from the impact, and the witcher heaved, hauling back to free himself, panting. He made space. Watched as the graveir wailed and whipped around, flailing claws, but it did not fall. Muscles tight and humming from the potion, Geralt flipped his blade and moved with a pirouette around its flank. Drove his sword backward into its back a second time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Necrophages have no heart, so there is nothing vital in its chest to strike. But the more contact the silver and oil made, the more it would coagulate its innards. He could smell it happening, and the graveir hacked up a clot of black blood as the second thrust pierced its lung. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He meant to move. To shove the sword in and withdraw it and be gone, but he missed his footing. The gravier heaved its bulk, and the sword hilt ripped from his hand as the beast spun and drove its fist into his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt staggered and dropped to one knee. The world spun as his ribs invented new agonies to layer like onion skin over his need to rip at his own flesh. He grimaced, panting, and watched the hilt of his blade glint as the gravier spun in circles trying to reach for it and rip it out. It bellowed and wailed the pan flutes of its death, but it did not give up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Around them, candles and torches lit inside rousing houses as morbid curiosity got the better of senseless humans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck . . . </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They would get themselves killed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wheezing over his broken ribs, Geralt crouched lower and with shaking effort concentrated a narrow shock of Aard along the ground like a trip wire. He released it at the graveir’s feet. Luck or timing, the necrophage fell on its face to a plume of dust, and Geralt darted forward, rising from his crouch into a run. His feet pounded the earth. He reached for the blade. And graveir twisted its ugly head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two things happened at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The necrophage plunged its jagged teeth into Geralt’s shin, sinking through the thick leather of his boot. And Geralt’s left hand closed over the hilt of his silver sword, hauling it free to a spurt and arc of blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pain registered deeply enough that Geralt cried out at the shock of it. But before he could try to formulate a strike, the necrophage released him, recoiling in fits of revulsion. The Black Blood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking. Spitting. The graveir pulled its arms in to try to rise, but Geralt regained his stance and gathered his strength into an executioner’s swing. He drove at the thing’s neck. The silver sword cut through hide and bone enough that the creature dropped. And then he leaned his weight and sliced with his sword like a knife carving steak until the graveir’s head came fully off. Dark blood oozed into the dirt like spilled molasses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt sagged and staggered back from it, trying to catch his breath. He could tell from the wetness on his skin and the stench that he was bleeding, but the pains were buried far under the Thunderbolt’s nerve rending and his body’s natural tolerance. He couldn’t tell how serious the injuries might be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment he just stared at his kill. Tried to calm the murderous whirlwind that had delivered another victory. Footsteps came closer, and he jerked his head up, sword coming automatically up to strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guardsman held up his hands and went still. Then swallowed and glanced around them meaningfully. Geralt’s gaze followed to the gathering crowd of candle lanterns and torches that filled the street.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” he said to the guard’s helpless shrug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time to leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Burn that!” he growled at the guard, and turned hobbling toward the gate. As he moved, his steps recovered more with each second as his mutations came to his aid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The commotion grew louder, burbling humanity and gathering fires as people demanded to know who and what had committed this violence in their streets. Were they saved? Was it over?</span>
</p>
<p><em><span>A witcher, a witcher, a witcher . . . </span></em><span>the whispers said. </span><em><span>The White Wolf. Look at his hair.</span></em> <em><span>Did he save us? How did he get here?</span></em></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Melitele’s mercy . . .</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Andrepont!” Geralt shouted toward the closed west gate. He rushed to it and beat on it with a closed fist. “It’s done! Open the gate!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now, the moment of truth. Roche would keep his word. Roche’s soldiers might have a different story in mind for the fate of the filthy mutant. He heard metal and wood groaning on the other side, and then a great creak as the hinge that hadn’t moved in some time stretched itself to life. It sounded like tree breaking. Like the cracking open of a tomb.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The gate!” someone shouted, and Geralt felt the bottom of his stomach fall away. “The gate!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pounded his fist on thick wood. “Hurry!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt turned, brandishing his bloodied sword as more townspeople and torches emerged into the street and flowed toward him from the body of the graveir, already a memory. They clustered with rapidly beating hearts, surging with hope. Geralt could see their eyes, wide and hungry. Panicked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck.” He glanced between the gatehouses on either side of the span in the wall and formed a terrible idea. “Andrepont!” he bellowed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re hurrying!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heavy things thumped on the other side of the gate. But the townsfolk were advancing. Their panic thickening. Waiting for the one unknowable bellwether that would break their trepidation and send them all surging for escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Children wriggled between the crowd, sliding like eels in their nightclothes to the front where they could stare at Geralt and his white hair and the pits of his eyes swallowing the light of the torches. Their mouths dropped into pink, pale circles. The older ones froze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The gate,” the crowd murmured. “Saved. We’re saved . . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Geralt cursed again, because they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> saved. Not by him. Not from the Bonny Plague. He could have spit with anger as he shook from the monstrous ravaging of the Thunderbolt. Snarling, he lifted one hand to form the sign of Quen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The spell flashed into being several meters from his feet and spread its wings wide. The witcher poured his will into its making, stretching the edges until they spanned the entrance to the town. Moonlight refracted gold across its surface, and Geralt dropped his hand, slumping from the effort. The gash on his face pulsed with renewed pain and the lower half of his leg went numb.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay back!” he called, holding his sword point toward the crowd. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not sick!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t keep us here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Voices bubbled, and the mass of humanity boiled closer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind him, the gate wrenched open a few centimeters, screaming on its hinges. And one of the children. Smaller. Long brown hair. A girl. Dashed toward him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt lunged, though there was nothing he could do. The child ran headlong into the Quen barrier. The magic flashed white on contact, for a brief moment illuminating the street like day. It rang with a sound like struck ice. Her eyes went wide with shock. Blue and beautiful. And her small, fragile body bounced off it like being thrown from a horse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She let out a short cry. Hit the ground hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Viol!” A woman shrieked and broke from the crowd.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The girl wailed, dissolving into tears. From pain. From confusion. Geralt couldn’t tell. He sheathed his sword and felt the tide of hesitation shift. Every line of the woman’s body hardened into anger as she pulled the wailing girl to her chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Monster . . .” she hissed. Louder. “Monster!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let us out!” Someone hurled a torch, and Geralt batted it away as the inanimate object passed the barrier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then you’ve killed us all!” The woman got to her feet, roaring with tears and rage, and around her the crowd swarmed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gate jerked open a little wider.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt!” Andrepont stuck an arm through, waving. “Geralt!” Another heave and they made enough space. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher retreated, staring at the little girl. His heart wild. Stomach churning. He stepped back, back, automatically ducked from rocks, torches, and curses thrown his way. A Blue Stripe grabbed him by the arm and hauled him through as bodies tossed themselves against his spell, and Frosditch sparkled like moonlight on a rippling pond under the crashes of desperate bodies and angry roars of men.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt returned to the encampment at dawn, before the shift change. Jaskier watched him walk up the road, leading Roach instead of riding. That struck him as strange, and he stood to make himself visible as the witcher turned off onto one of the camp trails. But if Geralt noticed him, he gave no sign. The soldiers near him fell into silent staring. They made themselves scarce like fleeing trout. Geralt didn’t seem to notice them, either, and he simply tied his horse up near the others and aimed himself at Roche’s tent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier hastily swallowed down the remainders of his bread and cheese and trotted over, concern tightening in his belly. Roche turned to look at the witcher and caught himself backing away. Jaskier could see black streaks like soot on pale skin. The two of them were talking, and then Roche clapped Geralt on the arm, and then the witcher was turning away, and Jaskier </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> saw something like blood down the side of his face. He quickened his steps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt stopped and looked ponderously his way while Jaskier caught up to him. His eyes. Oh, his eyes. Black pitch and spidering veins—he’d taken potions. The bard grimaced as he took in the wound and the haunting eyes. His stomach gripped and heart stuttered with a response he couldn’t help, but he immediately touched Geralt’s chin to angle him around for a better look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re still bleeding,” Jaskier said, voice tight in alarm. It glistened like something fresh, though it was black as tar, and he couldn’t tell yet if he should be terrified.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt only grunted at him, oddly distant and sedate. Potion toxin did many things, none of them pleasant and fewer </span>
  <em>
    <span>sedate</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Several klaxons rung loudly in Jaskier’s head but he set them aside for later. Wounded witchers were one of his specialities now, and he had things to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slid his fingers around the strip of bare skin between Geralt’s glove and sleeve. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” Geralt pulled from Jaskier’s grip, and the bard narrowed his eyes at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span> once we clean that up.” He frowned. “Stop being weird.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier took him by the wrist a second time and led him to the campfire where he’d taken breakfast. The Blue Stripes’ chittering fell quiet when Geralt sat on one of the upturned logs, the leather of his armor creaking. Jaskier watched them all exchange tense stares and cleared his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, just getting some things from Roach. I’ll be right back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something was wrong. Tiny claws worried at Jaskier’s chest as he grabbed the potion bag from Roach and hurried to the quartermaster’s cart for some water and clean cloth. Even for Geralt he seemed usually quiet, and there was never a good reason for that. Several possible bad ones. Suspicions bubbled bile toward the bard’s throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swallowed and kept moving, bringing himself back to the campfire where Geralt still sat. All the soldiers notably gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened, you tell them a joke?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt lifted an eyebrow and peered up at him without a sparkle of humor. Not that potion-black eyes could show humor. “Shift change.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier glanced around the encampment, which did not look particularly busy, and let the matter drop with a frown. He hadn’t figured his new friends for bigots or cowards. And he determined to find out which they were before they left. He set the bag down to a gentle clattering of bottles and soaked one of the clean cloths in the cup of tannic water. Geralt did not reach for the cup or the cloth. Didn’t try to make him stop or insist that he could do this himself, which he certainly could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He simply . . . sat, his body jerking in small unsettling ways. And Jaskier couldn’t decide if this was evidence of trust or evidence that he simply didn’t care that he was bleeding black ooze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, how was work?” he asked brightly, and wiped at where the blood had dried along Geralt’s jaw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Successful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt tilted his head and closed his eyes as Jaskier began dabbing at the wound itself. As he cleared away some of the blood, he could see the ragged edges of the cut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was it what they thought?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt hummed. “A graveir, like Vernon said. Feeding on the piles of the dead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier switched to a fresh cloth, wrung it out, and tried to clean some of the blood from Geralt’s hair before circling gently around the edges of the wound again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And this cut?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A scratch,” Geralt countered. “Forgot to duck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier held him by the chin again and angled him into a beam of sunlight for a clearer look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doesn’t look too deep. Just messy. Also </span>
  <em>
    <span>black</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which might be a concern?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt blinked his eyes open slowly. “Black Blood potion,” he said, which had the sound of a reasonable explanation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier let go and crouched to go through the potion bag for one of the wound care oils. His attention caught on a rip through one of Geralt’s boots, and his fingers stopped in their search. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scooted over and lifted the witcher’s foot by the heel. There were punctures everywhere, and he felt his belly go liquid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got bitten,” Geralt added, seeming unconcerned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier glared up at him, sure that if he hadn’t noticed by accident Geralt would have failed to say at all. He tried to be gentle with it, but the leather was stiff from dried blood. The fabric of his breeches stuck to the wounds. Geralt’s flesh quivered, but he never complained, only watched with inscrutable eyes as Jaskier washed the black blood off and picked out bits of leather and fiber. His cupped his fingers lightly around the undamaged meat of Geralt’s calf and stroked gently while he prodded with tweezers. Black blood, black leather, black fabric. Fuck he needed a new color. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he’d inspected every puncture to his satisfaction, Jaskier reached for the potion bag again, keeping Geralt’s foot braced against his thigh as he knelt. He found the wound care oil at last. Nothing too fancy, lavender, plantain, meadowsweet, and chamomile oil. Just something to ease the sting and urge the cut to close. He unstoppered the bottle and tipped a little onto his fingertip. Geralt sat ever patient while Jaskier ghosted touches across his angry skin. He wound a cotton bandage around his calf and eased the stiff pant leg back into place. Then he stood and gave the cut on his face the same tender attention. Jaskier stoppered the bottle and set it back in the bag. And then he was done. He rubbed the oil off on the back of his other hand and stepped back, examining his handiwork. His lover’s expression. Worry plagued him. And Geralt wouldn’t look him in the eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you . . . all right?” he ventured. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Have you rethought your answers? Rethought me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why won’t you look at me . . .</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With another creak of leather, Geralt stood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was an easy job,” he said, by way of not answering, then ducked to pick up his potion bag and turned away, scanning the rest of the camp. “The effects of the potions haven’t—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Faded. Do you need anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt hesitated and scratched ineffectually at one arm. “Time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t bear it. A single more kind touch. One more look of tender concern. It was too much. Too much </span>
  <em>
    <span>kindness</span>
  </em>
  <span> for an inhuman thing. Too much contact while the Thunderbolt ate him raw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt spotted an uninhabited site at the far edge of the Blue Stripes’ encampment and started for it, careful of his barefoot step and carrying his ruined boot. With him gone, Jaskier’s friends should return quickly enough, and perhaps the bard could amuse himself with their company. Geralt detoured to grab his pack and bed roll from Roach’s saddlebags, new boots from Roche’s quartermaster, and then set himself to unpacking for a night’s stay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He unstrapped his armor piece by piece, stacking, wrapping, and tying the parts together for storage. Without the insulation and heat of it, the tightness in his chest could no longer be blamed on material comforts. He rolled up his sleeves, scowling, and removed some clothes, white gull, and polish from his pack. This for his silver sword. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It couldn’t be left slicked with necrophage oil and dried blood. So he cleaned and polished and checked the edge and wore away an hour’s worth of despairing energy before the blade would pass even Vesemir’s standards and there was nothing left to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt slid the silver sword back into its case and glanced around himself. So tired. So heavy. The aftermath of a dose of Thunderbolt left him oversensitized. Even if nothing itched anymore, hot was too hot. Cold, too cold. It left his nerves screaming no matter the stimulus, and he’d yet to find anything that would numb him to it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He spread the bed roll out for something soft to kneel on and settled in for a meditation. He focused on his breathing, on the tightness in his chest and throat. Let it be noticed, while he breathed in. Let it be noticed while he breathed out. He let the sounds of the soldiers arriving from Frosditch pass through his attention. And the chirps of birds. The sound of wind in the leaves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His body spawned aches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heartbeat slowed on its own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the Black Blood left his system, it would be through fever.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s scent moved toward his camp, sweat, and musk, and the healing oil. He didn’t stay long. Or say anything. And Geralt didn’t open his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he left again, a small part of Geralt’s heart pounded </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He should go. Be far outside the range of blood spatter and contagion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An hour later, perhaps more, the witcher opened his eyes and glanced around at the camp’s strange stillness. Chill rippled through his body, and sweat gathered on his arms and the small of his back. Nearby, within view, within easy reach, sat a cup brimming with water. And only seeing the cup did he realize his tongue and throat had gone dry. Geralt downed it greedily and pushed himself up to standing to retrieve more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he wove through the camp on wobbly legs, he understood. Noon and the hottest time of the day. Everyone was lounging under tent flys and napping. He went to check on his horse, only to find that her saddle had already been removed and buckets of food and water left where she could reach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s heart squeezed. And he felt his debts racking up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the walk back, he stumbled over the uneven ground, and his vision swam. He paused to lean against a tree, panting, and spied Jaskier finally. Garish green trousers announced themselves from the shade beneath Roche’s billet. Geralt’s eyebrow arched high. He’d been gone </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>day. And he was left wondering whose charisma had proven champion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scowled. That was the fever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Panting, Geralt dropped back onto his bedroll determined to sit in more meditation. His body thought otherwise, and he ended up sprawled and sweating while the Black Blood toxicity worked through him. Visions and dreams assaulted his delirium. His thoughts drifted from the burning in his face to the screams of terrified mothers. The piercing wail of the little girl the Yrden sign threw down. The stench of sickness and death. The war cry of the graveir. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Awe-filled. Hopeful. Terrified. Tearful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blue eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you angry with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt startled from the fitful dreaming to find the day had faded to dusk and his fever had broken. Jaskier stood at the edge of the trampled circle that marked the camp. He twisted his fingers together, scratching and picking at skin. Subtle fear gathered around him like perfume. Geralt frowned and slowly got to his feet, joints aching and disoriented. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t toy,” he said, deadpan. But Geralt’s frown and unsteady wavering must have convinced him, because he relented and repeated himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the fear that kept him at the edge of Geralt’s space, the anxiety in his fidgets, he held Geralt’s gaze in the low light. The witcher ran the question back again as his wits gathered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Why would I be angry with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier shrugged, a quick, tight, constricting motion. “It’s been an eventful couple of days.” His throat clicked when he swallowed. “And you’ve been avoiding me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” He started, intent to deny it, but . . . he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But not . . . not be because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What he knew—what he’d learned. Geralt shook his head and pressed his eyes shut as he caught up. Then he met the worry in Jaskier’s eyes with steady earnestness. “I’m not angry with you. And you don’t have to stand over there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If there had been a fire burning in the fire pit, Jaskier would have stepped into the light of it. As was, he moved cautiously, testing a smile and rubbing a thumb around one palm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Recovered from the potions, I see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt filled his lungs and sighed. He scratched lightly at the back of one hand just to test, and it felt normal. “Yeah. Just tired now,” he said, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier nodded. “Good. I know that can be . . . difficult for you.” He kept looking at the ground. “I . . .” The bard chewed on his lower lip. “I want to tell you something, and I want you to just listen.” He motioned to the bed roll. “Maybe we should sit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you angry with me? </span>
  </em>
  <span>It left Geralt off-balance. His gut clenching. Heart too fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The light had gone out of the day, and as he watched Jaskier take careful steps around logs and packs, it occurred to him it must be too dark for a human to see. Geralt crouched by the fire pit and small stack of kindling and formed the sign of Igni. A small bit of will tuned the fireball down to spark, and the wood quickly caught, casting them both in an orange glow.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lowered down to sit, careful of his frown. The weight on his chest had not eased, and when Jaskier looked at him in the firelight, for a flash, for a moment it was someone else, small and fragile. He was somewhere else. And his body hurt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He winced and hoped Jaskier didn’t see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence stretched while the fire crackled and Jaskier rubbed at his hands. The bard’s pulse fluttered rabbit-fast, and he let his gaze turn to the flames.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You almost asked me the other night what my father did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier—” He hadn’t thought it through. Shouldn’t have said—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! I said you have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their eyes met then, and Geralt felt his insides twist. Bone-deep fatigue pulled at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just shut up! You’re normally so good at shutting up. So . . . just this once . . . hmm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Concern furrowed the witcher’s brow, but he nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier went on. “I’m going to tell you because I don’t want to carry it around anymore. The more people I’ve told, the smaller my piece is, and I think . . . you are strong enough to carry it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt licked dry lips, barely able to breathe. “All right . . .” he said quietly. “Does that work?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard’s head wobbled from side to side. “Pretty sure. Did at the university anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt nodded and turned that thought over. “Then I want to tell you something, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up, and he sat a little straighter. “Really? I mean . . . yeah, of course.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll go first,” Geralt said. “Mine’s short. I shut them in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut . . . who in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A helpless shrug. “Everyone. Children. People who weren’t sick yet. They tried to follow me back out the walls, but I wouldn’t let them leave and sealed them in.” His eyes fell shut and he shook his head, guilt heavy in his throat. “Probably to die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard was quiet a moment. Then, “And that haunts you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt nodded and sighed, some of the tightness in his sternum loosening. His eyes popped open when Jaskier reached for one of his hands. Folded his fingers around it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s what the healers would have told you to do,” the bard offered. “For the greater good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s lips compressed, but he had no heat for anger. Just cold and sucking guilt. “Doesn’t fucking help them, does it?” He snorted, shaking his head and watching the fire. “The greater good sounds a lot like the lesser of two evils.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard sighed and stroked his thumbs across the back of Geralt’s hand. “You can’t save everyone, my friend, even though you try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier squeezed on his fingers, and Geralt felt some more of the tension go out of his shoulders. The throb in his throat ease. He squeezed back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your turn.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If someone could be prepared for a conversation like this, Geralt didn’t know how. He did not suppose that Jaskier told him everything, but he described enough. Enough that the witcher’s heart grew heavy with it. Enough that his body ached with it. When Jaskier spoke through tears of the shame and the rage, he closed his eyes and bowed his head and let him speak. Squeezed on his hands and listened. Imagined not weights and stones but poison wicked through the thin barrier of flesh. Listened until Jaskier had talked himself into an empty bowl scraped clean.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The quiet after grew brittle and self-aware in the absence of a voice. It prodded for more and stalked their thoughts and was not the satisfied kind of silence. Their hands had grown sweaty, and Geralt loosened his hold. Jaskier slipped free and moved to sit beside him, cross-legged. Their knees touched. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought about the people he could not save. The bard among them. And thought, perhaps, if he apologized for it— Just said aloud that if he had known he would have come, steel in hand and fury in his heart—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Impossible things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That tea we had,” Jaskier said, his voice a hoarse whisper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt glanced at him. “You want some?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A nod, and then Geralt rocked up to his feet to start the preparation. There wasn’t much he could do to make it noisy, but he tried and finally crouched in front of the fire, giving Jaskier what he expected was an excellent view. As usual, the bard surprised him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You never taught me about that one. The passionflower,” he said, without even a lewd inflection.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt shrugged while he worked. “It doesn’t grow around here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“South,” he offered. Considered both the bee balm and lemon balm they’d picked recently, the summer weather, and then went with the lemon. “Nilfgaard.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.” A pause. “Is it rare?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged again. “No, I don’t think so. The trader in Mahakam had sacks of it. Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just . . . curious how many wages that cup is costing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt rotated on the balls of his feet and stared in disbelief. “You’re worried about my wages?” Jaskier’s shoulders lifted, and Geralt shook his head as he turned back around. “What do you think the wages are </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He made two cups’ worth, one for each of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno,” the bard said, watching as Geralt moved back to the bed roll. “Beds. Food?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher cocked his head and offered one of the mugs. “Comforts?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That earned a soft smile, and Jaskier let it lie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A new silence bloomed after that. Sips and slurps and the sound of the forest coming alive at night. Of the Temerians talking and laughing. The medicines in the tea worked their way through Geralt’s system, and the images of Frosditch faded. He found he could breathe to the bottom of his lungs and Jaskier’s familiar scent wound around his senses, a delicate salve to frayed nerves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned and stretched out. Dropped his head into Jaskier’s lap and blinked up into curious, fascinating eyes—wine-dark seas in the low light. Gentle fingers laced into his hair, rubbing small circles he felt down to his toes. He let out a breath and lost track of the ground, that feeling of touch his only tether.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Play me something,” he said, a soft rumble. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In another mood, on another night, the bard would have teased him. Now, his expression simply went fond and pleased as he reached for his lute case. Jaskier shifted to accommodate the body of the instrument, smiling down over it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then the night was not so silent at all.</span>
</p>
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